


Remembering Fireworks

by LadyTineapple



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Afghanistan, Gen, PTSD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, War, new year's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 04:47:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTineapple/pseuds/LadyTineapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During New Year's Eve, memories of the war haunt John, years after he has escaped it and in front of everyone he knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remembering Fireworks

John shut his eyes tightly, wishing he could shut out the sounds as easily as the images. Another bang. They seemed to get closer; he could hear them clearer now than before. The smell of sand, hot, dry air, mixed with sweat and blood entered his nostrils, causing a slight and well-known nausea. Another bang, this time even louder. Then he felt something fall down next to him, touching his leg. He knew immediately what it was and that made him want to open his eyes even less, but he knew that he had to. No matter how much he wanted to escape the situation, he had to go through it, that was why he was here. Reluctantly he forced his eyes open and immediately saw the body lying next to him, covered in blood. The man’s face was wreathing in pain. John knew that he had to act now to safe that man’s life. It was his duty to save lives, despite his own fear, not to sit in a hiding spot and feel afraid. Why had he come here in the first place?

Trying to shut out the panic inside, John pressed his hands on that man’s wound, doing whatever he could to save him, but he knew that the wound was too bad. His chances to survive were low, even in a proper hospital. Out here in the desert, with hardly any equipment, John could not do very much. At best he could try to ease the pain a bit for his last few minutes.

“John!” somebody called him and suddenly the entire situation felt surreal. Was it the man, calling him and begging him to do something? He felt a hand on his arm, gripping him tight as he was called again, but it did not make sense to him. That was not how he remembered that moment.

The scene playing before John’s eyes slowly crumbled apart and instead he looked into two large blue eyes, piercing him with concern. Mary’s eyes.

He took a few deep breaths, trying to re-orientate and calm himself down. He was not in Afghanistan, he knew that much. No, he had been sent home from the war years ago, that was over. He was home in London, in Mary’s flat. 

Another loud bang disturbed the night, making John wince. Then he remembered that it was New Year’s Eve.

A short look around told John that everyone Mary had invited was now staring at him. Some were concerned, some more disgusted. They did not know what was going on inside of him, because they did not know him, not really.

Outside, the fireworks kept cracking. John forced himself to concentrate on what was around him, what was reality, and on the fact that the war was over for him. The disturbing sounds would go on for a bit longer and he could not afford to spend the entire night curled up in one corner of Mary’s living-room, reliving the horrors of his former life.

He pulled himself back up, with Mary still holding him, more to show her emotional than physical support. Then he swallowed and lifted his hands to show he was all right. He thought he should say something, anything at all, either to explain himself or laugh it off, but he could not find the words. For another short moment he just stood there, with everyone still staring at him, some exchanging concerned looks before he leaned to Mary, whispering that he would lie down for a moment. Whispering, not because he did not want anyone to hear him, but because he could not manage more.

Before she could respond, he pushed himself away from her and through the small crowd toward her bedroom, ignoring how weak his knees felt, just like he ignored how everyone stared at him or some tried to touch him, while others could not get away from him fast enough. Of course he knew what they thought. They thought he was insane. He had seen that look so many times, not directed to himself before though. Yet, he had seen it. He knew it and had always hated it, but this time, he did not care. It did not matter what they thought. Mary would certainly explain what had happened and if she did not, it still would not matter. He neither knew those people very well, nor did he care about them. If they wanted to think he was crazy, that was fine with him. They did not know what he had seen and probably would not be able to stand it.

John did not take his clothes off, but simply let himself fall onto the bed to give his legs the rest they seemed to demand. Then he rolled onto his side and pressed pillows on each side of his head, trying to shut out the noises, but it did not help very much.

Why did they scare him so much, he wondered, before realising that that was the wrong question. He knew why they did. What he did not know was why they scared him so much now, when they had not the previous year. He would have remembered being such a wreck, but he had not been. He had felt completely relaxed back then, for some reason.

Slowly he could feel reality fade away, the explosions outside slightly muffled from the pillows on his ears, but he was scared. Scared of the memories returning the way they had before. He wanted to leave it behind, once and for all.

The memory was a different one however. He was not in the desert, not in a war, he knew that immediately. He could still hear the fireworks, but they seemed far away. Instead, he heard a fire cracking next to him. He was back at 221B. It made him happy, but at the same time, he felt endlessly sad. He did not know why. Maybe something had been missing. He turned in the flat, but everything was where it belonged. He was where he belonged, but he had the feeling that he had not been for a very long time. For far too long.

Then he remembered. He was sad, because of Sherlock. Sherlock was sad, or so he seemed. He remembered. It was New Year’s Eve and his best friend was in love with Irene Adler, who had made him believe she was dead and lied to him. Well, maybe he was. John thought he was. Sherlock had never said anything to clarify and he did not show any signs of love either, but he felt differently about her than anyone else, which, for Sherlock, probably meant he was in love. At least John thought so.

Sherlock stared out of the window and John wondered what he was thinking about. Maybe Irene, he thought, but then again, he never knew what was going on in Sherlock’s head and he was not always certain he wanted to. 

“Happy New Year, John,” Sherlock said dryly, finally turned around to face him, put his violin up and began playing.

John sighed as he sat down in his chair, disappointed that Sherlock refused to speak to him when he only tried to help, but at the same time happy for reasons he did not understand. He was glad to hear Sherlock’s voice, to just be in the same room with him and glad that his playing drowned out the fireworks.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta was, as usual, my lovely Emma aka bitchinblackframedglasses.


End file.
